2002-06-08 - 12:36 p.m.

There was a fight in the 6th year class today. Obviously the two parties were both members of the group of miscreants that make up my boys club: Cher, the ringleader of the group, and Abdet. They are the two largest boys in the school and are the most frequently in trouble. The director and I were sitting outside his office chatting when the guilty parties were brought forward. The director grabbed one in each hand. With a huge smile on his face he said, “Here are my two good ones! Here are the good boys. What have you two been up to? Have you been practicing Karate in class?” At this point I bust out laughing along with Kaykoran, the boy that escorted the other two. Abdet had broken a smile, but Cher remained stern in his anger. “What kind of Karate moves were you doing? Were you practicing Karate kicks? Like this?” He began kicking in the air making yah yah sounds. Abdet began to chuckle. “What about karate punches? I used to be pretty good at that. Check this out.” The director then began rapid firing punches in front of himself. “Well is practice over? Cher you obviously still seem mad about this. Tell me what happened.” The explanation was in Hassanya, but I understood the gist. Each had claimed to be stabbed with a knife by the other during class. Though no gapping stab wounds could be found on either boy, they both remained adamant that is was he who had been stabbed. At one point Abdet tried to interrupt Cher to defend himself. The director reached up and closed his lips together with his index finger and thumb, as he would a baby. Abdet just smiled in response. “Okay, so you were both stabbed,” the director said. “What we need to know now is whether or not you two can forgive each other for having been stabbed. Now what’s say we shake hands and say we’re sorry?” Abdet extended his hand but Cher ignored it. “Cher, Abdet has extended his hand. I think you might want to take it.” Reluctantly Cher extends his hand to Abdet who takes it. “Okay, that felt good. Let’s do it again, but this time together? 1… 2… 3… go.” They both extend hands. “Great! Lets do it again, but this time we’ll say we’re sorry too. 1… 2… 3… go.” They both extend hands and say they’re sorry. “Wow, that’s great. No more fighting. I think Mohammed Lamine has a present for you two because you are being so good to each other.” I was lightly shocked being called out like that, but I began to rummage around in my sack for something to make the boys happy…Success. At the bottom I found a sack of cookies from the previous weekend’s AIDs seminar. “Now are you boys through fighting,” I asked. They both reply affirmatively and I give them all a cookie. The director then sends them all back to class.

Within the last two months I have really begun to feel at home in my school. I no longer feel awkward sitting with the teachers during break. I have my function at the school. Everyone knows it, and respects me. The pauses themselves are my base of operations for work at school. It gives me a chance to speak casually with the teachers and plan projects. We sit together in the director’s office and drink tea and zriig. Nearly every break 5 or more children approach the door to relay some crime that has been committed on the playground. Some one hit somebody else. Some child took another’s pen. One older girl said something bad to a younger boy. The director handles each case independently and in my eyes, with wisdom.

About two weeks ago I was sitting in my normal position by the door during the 10:00 break. I had just finished a lesson with the 5th years and was exhausted. Lying on the floor with my head against the wall I dozed while the others spoke together. Towards the end of the break a knock came at the door, and I opened my eyes to see who was there. I was completely shocked to see a completely naked boy standing in the doorway covering himself with his freehand. My jaw must have dropped. Not only was he walking around in starkers, but it seemed I was the only one who noticed. The other teachers and the director went about their conversations as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. The boy rapped again at the door, and I said, “Uh…Mudiir, I think someone is at the door.” Again, to my surprise, the director reached below his desk and pulled out the boy’s clothes, which he threw at the naked 10 yr old. I couldn’t believe it. What was going on?

I turned to Tourée to try to get some answers, but he was deep in conversation with the 4th year teacher. Having no other choice I leaned over to Nyoung and asked him in whisper what was going on. The director spoke up in response to my question. “Last night that boy and a group of his friends first verbally threatened, then attacked a group of girls. The other boys don’t go to school, but he does and is a part of my tribe. It is my responsibility to discipline him. I could have beaten him, but that would have been standard and would’ve had little effect. I had to do something that he will remember for the rest of his life. His punishment was to stand on the playground completely naked for the entire recess. Last night he thought he was a man. Now he knows that a man doesn’t hurt girls.”

“Mudiir” is the Hassanya word for director. My director deserves the title. Whenever I am speaking to him it is never Mohammed, Sir or any other name. It is always Mudiir. On more occasions than I can count he has amazed me with his ability to deal with children and difficult situations. I was blessed to have been placed at his school. He continually renews my faith in the people of Mauritania, and the cause for which I am serving.

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